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Technically, he was hers, after all—a gift from her parents. And while Anna had not specifically agreed to house a parrot in her small flat, Ariadne—and therefore Winston—was only meant to be a temporary guest there, until she found her own place.
She was about to make a run for Winston when there was a loud screech from outside. Anna cried out a sharp warning. Ariadne spun back to the door to see a hansom cab, being driven hell-for-leather, come to a stop inches away from crashing into the Lightwoods’ carriage. The cab’s door opened, disgorging a man in a filthy traveling coat, a bent hat jammed sideways on his head. He flung a handful of coins at the cabdriver before heading straight for the Bridgestocks’ front door.
Ariadne did not recognize the coat, the hat, or the staggering limp, but she recognized the man, though there was half a week’s white stubble on his face, and he looked years older than the last time she’d seen him.
“Father?” she whispered. She had not meant to speak; the word had left her mouth on its own.
Anna looked at her in surprise. It was clear she, too, had not recognized the Inquisitor.
“Maurice?” Ariadne’s mother had raced to the door, Eugenia and Christopher behind her, wearing matching looks of surprise and concern. She caught at Ariadne’s hand—squeezed it once, hard—and flew down the steps to throw her arms around her husband, who stood stock-still, motionless as a gnarled old tree, even as his wife sobbed, “What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you let us know—”
“Flora,” he said, and his voice was harsh, as if he had worn it out by shouting or screaming. “Oh, Flora. It’s worse than you could imagine. It’s so much worse than any of us imagined.”
The next morning Cordelia’s greatest fear was having to encounter either James or Matthew upon emerging from her bedroom. She delayed as long as she could, fussing over getting dressed, though she could tell by the angle of the sun through the windows that it was already late morning.
She had slept poorly. Over and over, when she closed her eyes, she saw James’s face, heard his words. I was wrong about my marriage. I didn’t think it was real. It was real. The most real thing in my life.
He had told her he loved her.
It was all she thought she had ever wanted. But she found now that it rang hollow in her heart. She did not know what was driving him—pity, perhaps, or even a regret for the life they had shared together at Curzon Street. He did say he had been happy. And she had never thought Grace made him happy, only miserable, but it was a misery he seemed to have relished. And feelings showed themselves through actions; Cordelia believed James liked her, desired her even, but if he had loved her…
He would have sent Grace away.
After lacing up her boots, she went out into the suite, only to find it empty. The door to Matthew’s room was closed, and James was nowhere to be seen.
The green absinthe bottle was still on the table. Cordelia thought of Matthew—of his mouth on hers, and then the way he had whitened when he asked if James had gone into his room.
There was a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach as she went out into the blue-and-gold hall. She spied the hotel porter, just departing another room. “Monsieur!” she called out, and hurried over to him. At least she could try to eat something before she had to start her journey. “I wanted to ask about breakfast—”
“Ah, madame,” the porter exclaimed. “Do not trouble yourself. Your companion has already called for breakfast and it should be delivered very soon.”
Cordelia was not sure which companion he meant, James or Matthew. She wasn’t sure she wanted to breakfast with either of them, and certainly not both, but it seemed too much to explain that to the porter. She thanked the man and was about to turn away when she hesitated. “May I ask you one other question?” she said. “Did you bring a bottle of absinthe to our suite last night?”
“Non, madame.” The porter looked puzzled. “I brought one bottle yesterday morning. Six o’clock.”
Now Cordelia was the one puzzled. “Why would you do that?”
The porter looked even more surprised. “I bring a bottle every morning, just after sunrise. By request of Monsieur Fairchild. Brandy, or absinthe.” He shrugged. “When he was here before, he wanted it in the evening. This visit, early morning. No difference to me, I said, six o’clock every morning.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia managed to get out, and left the porter staring after her as she stumbled down the hall.
Once inside the suite door, she leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. Matthew had indeed lied to her. He had sworn not to drink, and he had not—in front of her. But the porter had brought him a new bottle of liquor each morning. Had he been drinking, then, at every moment that he wasn’t in her sight? It certainly seemed like he had been.
It was one lie too many, she thought; now she was truly broken beyond repair. She’d been lied to over and over again, by everybody she cared about. Her family had lied about her father’s drinking. James had lied—about Grace, about her, about the very premise of their marriage. Lucie, who was supposed to be her closest friend, who she knew better than anyone, had kept her relationship with Jesse Blackthorn hidden, and had fled London without a word or a warning to Cordelia.
She had thought Matthew would be different—precisely because he believed in nothing, because he had already given up on morality as most people saw it, on virtue and high-mindedness. He cared only about beauty and art and meaning, as bohemians did; this was why she had believed that he would not lie to her. Because if he were going to drink, he would say so.
But he had looked her in the eye and promised her that if she came to Paris with him, he would drink only lightly; he had allowed her to believe he had not touched drink at all. Yet the porter had been delivering brandy daily since the day they arrived. Cordelia had thought that even if Paris could not save her, at least it might save Matthew. But it seemed that one could not change oneself by changing one’s place, as much as one might dream of it; neither of them had left their troubles behind. They had only carried those troubles along with them.
When he came back into the suite, James found it undisturbed, as though no one had woken yet. The doors to both bedrooms were still closed. Shaking his head, he went and banged on Matthew’s door. When nothing happened, he banged on it again, a bit harder, and was rewarded with a low groaning noise from somewhere within.
“Breakfast,” he called. There was another, even lower groan from inside. “Get up, Matthew,” he said, his voice harsher than even he expected. “We need to talk.”
There was a series of thumping and crashing sounds, and after about a minute Matthew yanked the door open and blinked at James. He looked completely exhausted, and James wondered how late he had gotten back last night; he’d only known Matthew had returned at all because of his coat crumpled on the floor of the suite and another couple of empty bottles next to it. Certainly whenever Matthew had come back, it had been after James was asleep, which would have been very late indeed. James himself had lain on the couch, awake, for what felt like hours, staring into the dark in a state of utter despair. Magnus had slapped him on the back and wished him good luck before sending him through the Portal to get here—but no amount of luck, it turned out, would have helped.
In the space of what felt like a moment, he had lost not one but two of the most important people in his life.
When he finally did nod off, his sleep was strange and disturbed. He had had no dreams at all, that he could remember; there had been only a kind of harsh blank white noise. Strange, he thought, even stranger than the dark dreams Belial had sent him in the past. It had been a sound like the roar of the ocean but unpleasant and metallic, a sound that made him feel as if his heart had broken and poured out a shrill scream only he could hear.
